by P. W. Child
"Sam, buddy!" Jefferson boomed. "Good to see you! You've met Paige—isn't she great? Wait until you see what she's got on the stove; she is just the best cook! Oh, honey, let me get that for you." He turned around to open the passenger door for Paige, then took Sam's luggage and swung it into the back seat. Sam climbed in after it and dutifully answered Jefferson's questions about what he had been up to since they had last seen each other, naturally withholding the more intense events. He thought he detected a hint of disapproval from Paige when he confirmed that the Post had, indeed, let him go. She suppressed it quickly, and Sam wondered whether he had read too much into her tone. Fortunately, Jefferson changed the subject at that moment, pointing out a few local sightseeing spots along the route to their house.
Mile after mile of pale beige farmland stretched out under a pinkish sky. Sam watched for the falls that gave Cascade County its name, but saw none. Instead they headed toward what Sam took to be nearby hills, gradually realizing that he was in fact catching his first glimpse of the distant Rocky Mountains. Jefferson chatted away about Freezeout Lake and the local nature reserve, and how a man could just walk for hours and forget about everything. Sam could imagine that it was true. The land certainly lived up to all the "Big Sky" hype. Sam had dismissed that at first, because the sky could hardly be different sizes in different places, but now that he saw the place, he felt the difference in perception.
After an hour, just as darkness fell, they sped past a sign reading "Welcome to Choteau: Gateway to the Rocky Mountain Front." Sam caught a brief glimpse of the town up ahead before the car swung off down a road with a sign marked "Deep Creek." Sam thought Jefferson had gone crazy and driven them off the road, before he realized they were on a dirt track. "It's a short cut!" Jefferson assured him, catching sign of Sam's perplexed expression in the rearview mirror. "This way we don't have to go through Choteau to get to the cottage."
Hearing the word "cottage" in their earlier discussions, Sam had prepared himself for living in close proximity with the Daniels family. He had braced himself for cheek-by-jowl living, despite never wanting to do that again after those nights spent in a tent in Antarctica. He had not considered that Jefferson's idea of a cottage might be different from his own.
When the car stopped it was not a cottage that Sam saw, but a sprawling farmhouse with a handful of outbuildings. There was a barn that had been converted into a triple garage, a paddock and stable, and along a short path stood a small house that was more in line with Sam's idea of a cottage.
"I hope you're ok with the guest suite," Jefferson said, pointing to the small house. "It's small, but it's kind of cozy. I'll drop your stuff in there. You go with Paige and she'll get you a drink."
Obediently Sam followed Paige into the house. It was immaculately presented, with fresh flowers in crystal vases on every surface. A tall trophy case stood in the hallway, surrounded by carefully curated family photographs, so that any casual visitor would be immediately impressed with the family's high achievement levels. Set slightly apart, just far enough to be conspicuous without being distasteful, was a perfect candid shot of Jefferson and Paige, apparently sharing a joke with George Bush Sr. in the White House Rose Garden.
"Nice glasses," Sam said, as Paige pressed an Old Fashioned in a monogrammed tumbler into his hand.
"Thanks," she smiled sweetly. "They came from my grandmother. Those are her initials, Mary Hammersmith Cassidy. She always believed in the importance of good crystal." At once, Sam felt under immense pressure not to drop the glass or accidentally grip it too tightly.
"Hey, Mom, where's mine?"
Jefferson's daughter appeared in the doorway, slouching against the doorframe. She was as tall and slim as her mother, though her dress sense was certainly different. She wore layer on layer of wispy black garments, and her messy blonde ponytail contained a couple of clipped-in strands of red and purple streaks. Sam tried to suppress a smile as he caught sight of Paige's pursed lips.
"Henley, dear, we have company. Why don't you go and put on something more appropriate?"
"What's wrong with this?" Henley demanded, striding across the room so that her trailing sleeves and scarves fluttered behind her. "You said no skin. I'm not showing skin. Now can I have a drink?"
"Henley, we've discussed this." Paige turned to Sam apologetically. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Cleave. My daughter thinks she's an adult already. Henley, you are seventeen years old."
"Dad lets me drink." She reached for the nearest bottle in the liquor cabinet, but her mother slapped her hands away.
"Dad lets you have one glass of wine with dinner." Jefferson walked into the room and ruffled his daughter's hair. "Stop tormenting your mother. Have you said hello to Mr. Cleave yet?"
"Please, call me Sam," Being addressed so formally was starting to make him feel uneasy.
Henley grudgingly accepted the glass of lemonade that her mother handed her before retreating to the kitchen. She reached for a breadstick from the plate that sat in front of the liquor bottles, placed it between her perfect teeth and looked Sam in the eye as she bit down. "You're the guy who's going to write my dad's next book?" She frankly looked him up and down. "Cool. Let me help you with that. These FireStorm freaks? They're crazy. Like, worse than Scientology. Mom and Dad like it because it's like going to the country club but with added spirituality, but it's totally insane. One big money spinner with a side order of social control."
"Hey, Henley!" Jefferson laughed and threw an arm around his daughter's shoulders. "Whoa there, honey! Isn't she great? She's my little warrior for justice—aren't you, sweetie? But you'll see for yourself, Sam. It's a really interesting new way of thinking. But you don't want to hear about all that right now! You just relax tonight. Tomorrow we'll go out for dinner, just the two of us, and we can make a start then."
Henley rolled her eyes hard. "Daaaaaad, you're not taking him to that stupid mermaid place, are you?"
"Sssshh, honey, you'll ruin the surprise! Now come on, let's show Mr. Cleave through to the dining room. You know your mother won't appreciate it if we let the pot roast get cold."
The "stupid mermaid place" turned out to be a kitschy tiki bar by the name of Sip 'n' Dip, where the daiquiris were accompanied by the sound of live jazz piano and the walls were lined with large fish tanks with attractive young women in mermaid costumes swimming around.
"It's not really Paige's kind of place," Jefferson said, slipping the bartender a generous tip. "But I kind of love it. My dad brought me here on my twenty-first birthday; bought me my first legal drink! I thought I was in girl heaven." He watched appreciatively as a mermaid with long dark hair and a red tail performed a lazy flip in front of them. "Now, let's get down to business. Did you get a chance to look at the information I sent you about FireStorm?"
Sam nodded. He had spent much of the previous day's plane journey looking through printouts of the FireStorm website. It was not yet live, but Jefferson had sent him screenshots of the "About FireStorm" section. In truth, he had struggled to understand it. All he had seen was a page full of platitudes about the Age of Aquarius, heightened consciousness, and the bringing together of peoples and cultures. So far there had been nothing to set it apart from any of the multitude of fashionable beliefs espoused by wealthy individuals. However, Sam was surprised that it had appealed to someone so conservative in his views as Jefferson, and he had spent the small hours of the previous night plagued by jet lag and trying to figure out a tactful way of phrasing the question.
"It was really interesting material," Sam erred on the side of diplomacy. "There's going to be a lot to discuss as we go forward, just so we can make sure everything's absolutely clear. But the first thing I'd like to know is exactly how you got involved. Things seem to have happened really quickly. You weren't involved with this group before you went to Antarctica, were you?"
"That's correct, I was not." Jefferson sighed deeply, staring at his drink. "I haven't spoken much to my family about this, Sam, but you were there, you'
ll understand. Something broke inside of me in Antarctica. I mean, I'm used to harsh environments, and I've been in some situations where I didn't think I was going to get out alive, but . . . nothing like that. I've never felt so . . . powerless. Like I didn't know what was going on, and nothing was what it was supposed to be. I decided I was done with polar expeditions before we even got home from Ushuaia.
I thought I'd come home and maybe try something new, stay here and make a difference, maybe go into politics. I'm getting a little old for exploring." Sam caught him sneaking a glance at his reflection in the mermaid tanks. "So I started spending a lot more time at the country club, building up some old friendships with people who could help me, and that's how I met Sara Stromer, the mind behind FireStorm. She was in town doing the groundwork for the Montana base. We got to talking, and I was able to introduce her to a few people who helped her find a site, and then got her applications and licenses fast-tracked. And as she told me more about what she was doing, I just kind of got interested and thought this might be the new purpose I was looking for.
Then I introduced her to Paige and they got on really well, so we flew down to the main base at Parashant and spent a weekend doing an introductory Mind Meld. It really worked for us, so I got initiated and we've kept going back. Then eventually Sara asked if I wanted to get involved with running the Montana base. I said yes, and now they're going to give me an official role. It's really straightforward. You'll pick it up quickly. Boy, I can't wait for you to meet Sara! She's great. You'll like her!"
"Can't wait," Sam said, with as much sincerity as he could muster. His mind conjured up an image of a dowdy, schoolmarmish middle-aged lady, trying desperately to look bohemian and New Age in a hot pink caftan with orange scarves tied round her neck and wrists. Or perhaps some wispy youngster, barely older than Henley, luring older men with the power of a killer midriff. Either way, Sam was sure, he would be unlikely to be taken with Sara Stromer.
☼
Chapter Four
As it turned out, Sam was quite relieved to meet Sara. She and her second in command, Cody, arrived just as Paige and Henley seemed to be settling in for one of their longer and more involved arguments. Unlike the previous spats that Sam had seen, this one did not involve issues of appearance or behavior, but Henley's desire to delay college in favor of pursuing her winter sports career.
Sam knew that Sara was due any moment and was schooling himself to be polite and professional, but the longer the fight went on, the more tempted he became to feign illness just to get out of the room.
"Henley, for the last time, you are not skipping college!" Paige's sweet smile was still in place, but there was an unmistakable look of fury behind her eyes. "Take it from me, you don't want to be the oldest girl in your class—how will you ever meet anyone worth marrying if you're older than everyone around you? Now, the matter is closed—we have company."
Unwilling to concede entirely, Henley began questioning whether Sam truly counted as company or whether the fact that he was receiving payment from her father meant that he was help. She came close to succeeding. Paige was at the point of losing her temper completely when Jefferson emerged from his study to tell them that Sara's car was approaching. Sam breathed a hearty sigh of relief.
The slick black Cadillac cruised over the gravel and came to a halt just outside the house. It was driven by a man, who wore a ponytail, with an air of carefully studied coolness. In the passenger seat was the kind of expensively groomed woman whose age could never be guessed. With her perfectly cut hair, falling past her shoulders like the darkest liquid chocolate, and skin that had certainly had the benefit of a good dermatologist (if not a plastic surgeon), her birth date was as much a mystery as her past.
She's completely constructed, Sam thought. There's not one thing about her that gives away where she comes from or what kind of person she is when she's not working.
Dinner itself was a polite affair. Paige was a truly excellent cook and had put out an impressive spread—clear tomato soup with homemade spelt bread, a roasted guinea fowl with sage and blood orange, and finally a chocolate marquise, so rich that it had to be served in tiny portions. By the end of the meal, Sam was suffused with the pleasant sensation of having eaten far more than he actually required.
The food also served as an excellent means of keeping the conversation flowing. Seated with Paige on one side and Henley on the other, all Sam had to do was keep asking Paige about her many engagements as hostess and her time spent learning fine cooking, while protecting her from occasional barbs from her daughter. He had little occasion to talk at all to Sara and Cody. It seemed as though the room had split into two separate diner parties, with Jefferson talking FireStorm business at the far end of the table, while Sam kept Paige and Henley entertained.
Seems like a bit of a weird way to do things if I'm meant to be writing a book about these people, Sam thought. But mine is not to reason why. There'll be plenty of time to spend with them once we're out there. No sense in overdoing it.
By the time dinner was done and the brandies had been drunk, Sam was in urgent need of a cigarette—not just for a nicotine fix, although that was always welcome, but to escape from the small talk. It was not hard to keep a trained hostess talking, but it was a little wearing after a while.
During his chat with Paige, Sam had eavesdropped snatches of Jefferson's conversation with Sara and overheard a few too many references to communal sharing of emotional experiences and to something called "The Hunt," which sounded more physical than Sam usually cared for. He was beginning to wonder whether accepting this job had really been such a great idea, even if the money was good.
"Ach, you're just winding yourself up," he said to himself, walking back toward his cottage. "You'll be fine. It's not for long. Besides, you could be doing with a nice, quiet, boring job after—"
A sound caught his attention. It was something familiar, he knew, made unfamiliar by the cold, dark night.
Sam listened intently—whistling wind, a faint chirp of crickets, rustling grass, and his own shallow breathing, nothing else—then something. Footsteps. Slow, careful footsteps. Then . . . a click. Sam held his breath. He waited for the gunshot.
It did not come. Instead he heard a soft thump—and then, a few moments later, a louder one. It was, he realized, a door—a car door. The unseen person must have tried to close it silently, failed and tried again.
As stealthily as he could, Sam crept toward the source of the noise. I must be insane, he thought. If I had any sense I would get Jefferson. He's bound to have a gun, and even if he doesn't, at least there'd be two of us, rather than just me and a lighter.
There was just enough moonlight for him to make out the shape of the car. Sam dropped to a crouch, wondering what he was going to do next. He settled on the idea of finding a place to hide and waiting to see what the intruder would do next, but to do that he was going to need more light. Shielding his lighter with his hand, he flicked the spark wheel.
The gasp from the car told him that he had misjudged the angle. In a heartbeat Sam was on his feet, ready to run—but even quicker, the car door swung open and a figure leaped out.
"I'm sorry!"
Sam heard the voice ring out from behind him. Its vulnerability caught him off-guard and he turned, holding the lighter up.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—look; please don't call the police, ok? I'm not trying to rob the place or anything, I swear. Oh, please, I'm so sorry, I'm really, really sorry—"
The woman was young, maybe twenty-five at most, and looked more terrified than anyone Sam had ever seen. Her hands were raised in a classic gesture of surrender. Sam had no idea what she was doing, but he was absolutely certain that he did not want to raise the alarm—at least, not yet. Raising a finger to his lips, he beckoned her to follow him back toward the guest cottage. She hesitated, clearly aware of the dangers of following strange men into strange houses, but the sound of the front door to the farmhouse opening made her ret
hink. She fell into line behind Sam, and the two of them hurried quietly toward the cottage door. As soon as they were inside Sam silently pulled it shut, and they both froze and waited until Sara and Cody's car was out of earshot.
"Wait," the woman said, looking closely at Sam. "You're not Jefferson Daniels. This is his place, isn't it? So who are you?"
"You're asking me?" Sam hissed back, still with half an ear listening for any further movement on the dark driveway. "I'm someone who's got an invitation to be here, that's all you need to know. I take it you haven't?"
She looked away, abashed. "No," she said. "But please don't call the cops. I'll get in so much trouble, and I swear I'm not here to do anything wrong."
Sam could not help but laugh. "You're sneaking around someone else's property in the middle of the night, begging me not to get the police, and you expect me to believe that you're not doing anything wrong? Come with me." He led the woman, now looking more alarmed than ever, into the den. Jefferson was a good host and had furnished Sam with a decent bottle of Laphroaig, from which Sam poured two glasses. He handed one to the woman. "There. Now, have a seat. If you're not doing anything wrong, tell me what you are doing here. In fact, even if you are doing something wrong—especially if you are." He dropped into one of the overstuffed armchairs.
Tentatively, the young woman perched on the edge of the other seat, clutching the tumbler. "Ok . . . I'm not casing the place, I promise. I'm a journalist. I'm working on a story about Sara Stromer."
"What kind of story?"
"About her and this thing she runs called FireStorm. It's kind of a religion, but there's a lot of other stuff going on, such as land acquisition and links to major companies. No one knows a lot about it—it's really secretive—I'm just trying to learn more about it, and her."
"By sneaking around here at night?"